Page 52 of Pocket Wife

CHAPTER 21

LUCY

The valley learns to count aloud.

The emergency hearing clock is already running.

Thirty-seven households still unsigned.

Four covenant fragments copied and stored in separate archives.

One child’s medical authorization with twenty-one hours left before another review could steal it back.

I write each number on the meeting hall wall because hidden fear grows teeth. Spoken fear becomes work.

By midmorning, the hall no longer belongs only to Solaris Valley. Relay screens fill one side of the room, each one holding a different settlement face: Stonebend from the northern terraces, Lark Hollow from the river flats, Tamsin Ford from the old freight road, and three smaller farm clusters that once sent seed, tools, or hands during hard harvests.

They have all heard rumors.

Now I give them evidence.

I stand beneath the main display with the covenant marks projected behind me: water, burial, harvest. My side aches each time I lift my arm, so I stop lifting it. Pain does not need emphasis.

“This is not a request for charity,” I say. “Solaris Valley is asking for witness.”

A woman from Stonebend leans toward her screen. “Witness to what exactly?”

“To the fact that our families have lived here openly for generations. To shared harvest contracts. Water exchanges. Burial attendance. School rotations. Anything that proves Helix lied when it called us temporary occupants.”

An older man from Lark Hollow frowns. “If we enter testimony, Helix will know our names.”

“Yes.”

The answer lands harder than any reassurance would have.

I hold my voice steady. “They already know more than we want them to know. The difference is whether they get to frighten us separately.”

Behind the relay screens, people whisper and argue with someone outside frame. I can’t blame them. I would have wanted to hide too, if hiding had ever saved anyone from Helix.

Rethan stands near the side wall, not leading. Director Kaun’s restrictions have clipped his authority, and he honors them with visible restraint. Every uploaded document routes through her office. Every scan carries witness signatures. Every movement has a record.

Still, when I glance at him, the bond answers with quiet certainty.

Not rescue.

Partnership.

Torren enters with a slate under one arm. “Drone count is up to nine.”

The room reacts at once.

“Over the hall?” I ask.

“Hall, clinic, north cistern, burial rise, schoolhouse, and the west road. One parked above Samuel’s orchard like it pays taxes.”

That wins a few strained laughs.

A red notification flashes on the central display.